Even though I was only eight years old, I remember that first time my conscience bothered me. Just the fact that I still remember it this many years later, attests to the impact it had on me. Mom had come to me and said she had a question. I followed her into my parent’s bedroom on the upper level of our old farmhouse. She pointed to a small burned area on the top of their blond dresser.

“DeLila, can you tell me anything about this?”

I was caught off guard. I had no idea that my shenanigans a couple of days earlier had left a burned area, the size of a nickel. But then, I remembered the kitchen door had squeaked and I had thrown the match down and ran lickity split to my room. My stomach somersaulted at Mom’s question. I panicked. My parents were fair disciplinarians but maybe there was a way out of discipline all together. Almost before I knew it, I had lied. I wouldn’t say it came easy…but it spilled out, none the less.

“No, maybe Dave knows,” I said faster than it takes to strike a match. ( I would know.) My hope was that Mom would consider my suggestion seriously and go in search of Dave, leaving me a way to escape, never to be found again.

But, of course, Dave didn’t know anything. I had intentionally performed my crime so that no one would see me. Dad was in the field; Mom and Dave were in the garden. Connie was napping in her crib. I knew the squeaky kitchen door would function as an alert system for anyone coming into the house.

My parents may have suspected that I had lied, but they didn’t press the issue. I guess you could say I got away with it. But, I didn’t feel like I had gotten away with anything. Punishment from my parents was withheld, but my mind failed to let me forget what I had done. Not only had I put our house in jeopardy, but now I had lied on top of it. I had nightmares that the house burned down. I imagined that my parents didn’t love me as much anymore, because they suspected I’d lied. Shame and guilt took residence in my little eight year old heart.

Unfortunately, maintaining a clear conscience is not just a child problem. Temptations are always knocking at our doors. As adults we can be tempted to lie on our taxes, cheat on our spouses, accept the extra change the clerk gives back, stretch the truth on our resumes, watch movies we know corrupt our minds, and who knows what else. We pay a price for these things.

Charles Spurgeon, the great 1800’s English preacher makes this appeal: Never sacrifice your conscience. Lose all rather than to lose your integrity, and when all else is gone, still hold fast to a clear conscience as the rarest jewel that can adorn the human heart.

I certainly sacrificed my conscience the day I lied. I didn’t know at that age what to do about it, once it was done. But Healthline.com recommends that I would have been better off if I had followed these steps:

1. Taken responsibility for what I did.
2. Expressed remorse and regret without letting it turn into shame.
3. Committed to making amends for any harm I caused.
4. Practiced self-acceptance and trusted myself to do better in the future.

Although I am not proud of how I handled that situation, the experience did provide me with valuable insight into what was important to me. I never wanted to succumb to a temptation again that would pave a path to experience the emotions of guilt and shame that caused me so much turmoil. I don’t think it’s out of line to say that the experience I had as an eight year old formed a large portion of my character today.

It’s freeing to me to know I can learn from my mistakes and I can actually become a better person because of them. Not all is lost if I don’t waste the experience.

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

That gem that Charles Spurgeon speaks about is a very precious stone.

Three weeks ago when I wanted to schedule another chiropractic appointment, I was told they couldn’t schedule at that time because the computer system was down. Eventually, when more than a week had passed and the computer system was still down, they began scheduling the old fashioned way.

This Sunday when folks arrived at our church they were told the electricity was off across most of the town and would likely not be up again until late morning. It took some thought of how to proceed with church without the convenience and familiarity of electricity. The children in the pre-kindergarten class were elated when told their class would be held outside since their classroom had no windows. Microphones, of course, didn’t work so we “cozied” together in the front of the sanctuary – without our filled coffee cups, I might add. The band instrumentation was reduced to an acoustic guitar and we sang the good old songs we knew from heart. I found it to be reflective of how it might have been for my grandparents and great-grandparents to have worshiped.

Both of these situations can remind us that we are not in control. Even though some would like to be, none of us really are. Did we have anything to say about when we arrived in this world? Will we have anything to say about the day we will depart?

And think about the seasons – do we order the first snow or the first bud to appear on the apple tree in the backyard? Which leaf will be the first to turn red on the maple tree and what day will the tomatoes be ready to harvest? We are humbled when we realize we have no control over any of these things.

Our peace and security however, does not come from being in control. That’s only a facade at best. The person that barks loudest may like you to believe they are in control, but in reality, they are no more so than the meek one. The One that sculpted the universe, orders the seasons, and loves you and me as if we were the only one to love is in control. Peace does not come from us thinking we are in control – true peace comes only by having Jesus in our hearts and knowing the One that is sovereign over all things. Tonight we can sleep restfully knowing He lovingly carries us through every season we enter.

I’ve been carrying you on my back from the day you were born, And I’ll keep on carrying you when you’re old. I’ll be there, bearing you when you’re old and gray. I’ve done it and will keep on doing it, carrying you on my back, saving you. Isaiah 46:4 (MSG).

Until next time, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

I threw my only pole, an ultra-light with 6 pound test line into the back of my SUV along with my fishing box. My sister had called. “The turkey hunter has caught a couple of nice catfish out of the hole by the culverts,” she reported. “You might want to bring your pole.”

I was headed to the home ranch for a three night visit. May is my favorite time to go. The hills are green, the new calves are cute and spunky, and the deer flies have not arrived yet.

Back when I was growing up on the ranch, I fished for carp in the Calamus River that winds quietly through the meadows. They were big and feisty and Mom would fry them up. It was a meal we didn’t have to buy so “catch and release” was not in our vocabulary. I honestly don’t believe I became familiar with that phrase until after I was married. I was always made to feel that I had contributed greatly by providing the supper’s main dish. Catfish and bullheads were not available in the Calamus when I fished it as a kid. These species didn’t migrate upstream into our territory until the Calamus Dam (now known as the Virginia Smith Dam) was erected at Burwell, Nebraska in 1986. By this time, I was living in Buffalo, Wyoming – married with two small boys.

There are three culverts that cross under the road, just south of the house I grew up in. They replaced the old wooden bridge that was there when we first moved to the ranch in 1965. The force of the water through these culverts has carved out a nice big hole for the fish to hang in and a pool where the great nieces and nephews swim on sweltering summer days.

I rigged up my pole just the way Caleb, my son, had told me – a treble hook with some beef liver encased in a small nylon bag fashioned from a pair of panty-hose. This keeps the soft, pliable liver contained and on the hook.

I stepped out onto the middle culvert. I was pleasantly surprised that the trick with the panty-hose seemed to work well. After several casts the liver was still securely in place. Even though the Calamus is generally an easy going stream, the current is strong by these culverts. It pays to keep alert so your line doesn’t get sucked into one of the large rotund structures.

My heart rate jumped when I felt the strong tug on the fourth cast. It soared higher when – whatever it was – began pulling my 6 pound line back against the current. I watched in amazement as my open reel began to spin out of control. It seemed much like the time I hit black ice in my Ford Ranger. My light pole and reel – perfect for South Dakota trout – was going to be no match for this guy. I had little confidence that I would actually land this fish, but until he snapped the line – I was playing.

Since my equipment was no match, it seemed my best bet would be to allow him to tire out before I tried to maneuver him towards the shore. I was fairly certain the hook was secure since he hadn’t spit it out yet. Maybe, just maybe….if he would lose the fight in him…I could ease him up to the shore.

My plan was progressing forward. As he tired, I could reel him in closer in increments of inches at a time. Finally, I brought the exhausted fish so close that I could tighten my line so his huge head was above the water and lying on the sand. Keeping the line taut, I scrambled – well, not exactly scrambled – down the three foot vertical bank. Had someone been with me, they would have likely said I cautiously eased down the embankment. (It must have been my heart that was scrambling.)

Oh my…here I was! It looked like I was going to get this fish ashore! But, just as I pulled on the line a bit more to bring his whole body out of the water, the line snapped. One flap of his tail and he would be gone. Thanks to my nursing career, my critical thinking skills kicked in. I reached down and sank the fingers on each hand into his gills and pulled him up the remaining way up out of the water. If I could keep my fingers anchored where they were, I would have the biggest fish I had ever caught. Keeping my fingers in his gills wouldn’t be a problem but striving to climb back up the three foot vertical bank in that position would be.

I’m not sure how I managed to do it as I really do not remember the minutes that occurred from the shoreline to the road. I do know the whole experience was an adrenaline rush. That may have helped propel this 68 year old grandma vertically upward without the use of hands.

Sometimes, our own strength isn’t enough to do what’s placed in front of us. During these times we can rely upon a supernatural strength that we have access to as Christians. Philippians 4:13 tells us that we can do all things through Him who strengthens us. It’s a great verse to put in our back pockets for we never know when we will be faced with a situation that requires more strength than we have on our own.

That catfish was mighty fun to catch, but the big old thing was nothing to write home about when it came to supper. I would have just as soon had some of that carp Mom used to fry up.

Until next time, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Pickle-ball rocks! I’ve always enjoyed the racket sports as it seems they are the only sport I’m halfway proficient at. I started out as a youngster playing ping-pong and badminton with siblings and friends, and then later with sons and their friends. As a mid-aged adult I found racquetball, and as a senior adult, pickle-ball came on the scene.

The one thing I’ve noticed when playing any of these sports is that being active and involved with people energizes me and lightens my spirits. They say exercise releases the endorphins and dopamine in the brain which are known as hormones of happiness.

I really noticed the lack of these benefits when I recently had surgery and was unable to participate in pickle-ball for several weeks. Thankfully, I was still able to get out and walk – until I rolled my ankle on a rock. I was on a quiet street where no one saw me (thank goodness). I got back on my feet and limped home to the recliner. Ice became my buddy – but she did nothing for my melancholy mood. I thought ice cream and Doritos might help, but they only added pounds to my waistline and guilt to my woes.

I found myself teetering on the edge of the pity-pit. The recent circumstances added to the already existing stresses of life made me feel as vulnerable as krill chased by a blue whale. One more discouraging thought and a feather like nudge could have effortlessly sent me tumbling to the bottom. Ever been there?

One negative thought often breeds another negative thought and so on and so on. I hated feeling this way but I felt powerless to change it. (My idea for mood elevation is to DO something active which I wasn’t able to do at this time.) I needed someone to slap some sense into me. Thankfully, I’m a reader and Charles Spurgeon may as well have taken me by the shoulders and shook me. What I was reading was his take on Isaiah 3:10 that says, “Tell the righteous that it shall be well with them, for they shall eat the fruit of their deeds.” Pastor Spurgeon expounded on this by saying: In all conditions and under all circumstances, it will be well with the righteous. It is so well with him that we could not imagine it to be better, for he is well fed; he feeds upon the flesh and blood of Jesus. He is well clothed; he wears the imputed righteousness of Christ. He is well housed; he dwells in God. He is well married, his soul is joined in the bonds of marriage union to Christ. He is well provided for; the Lord is his Shepherd. He is well endowed; heaven is his inheritance.

This was exactly the slap and encouragement I needed. How could I teeter on the edge of the pity-pit any longer? When I think of the grace that’s been extended to me I am embarrassed that I allowed myself to even creep to the edge of that disastrous pit. When we call God our Father, we are so very blessed!

Until next time….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Some of my readers will have lived during the hippie era of the 1960’s and 70’s. You may have even been a hippie. If you were you may well remember older folks in particular, who looked down on you for rejecting the mainstream American life. And, if you were an older person at the time, you may recall how this young group seemed beyond reach. They were like aliens on planet Earth. This brought a lot of advice from the older folks that the young ones didn’t ask for. “Get a haircut, wear normal clothes, and for Pete’s sake – quit ruining your mind with drugs.” Not all, but many of the partakers of the hippie culture came from troubled backgrounds. The movement was searching for meaning and hoping to find it buried somewhere in this new kind of culture. If you are acquainted with Pastor Greg Laurie and have seen the movie, “The Jesus Revolution” portraying his life, you would know this was true for him. His mother was a severe alcoholic that had been married seven times. The man he thought was his dad – was not. Greg had no stability in his home; just a lot of confusion and lack of direction; having no idea how to contend with either one.

Like Greg, I see a lot of parallels of these past times, with those of the present times. Are young people not facing mountains (heaps) and pits (deep despair) of confusion today? Some don’t even believe who their bodies tell them they are. The Enemy is telling them that God makes mistakes and they are believing it. Not only believing it, but acting on it. Young men think they surely are a woman caged in a man’s body and vice versa. Some are identifying as non binary, meaning they don’t have any one sole identity of either a male or female.

I can’t help but wonder if I had been bombarded by confusion from adults, society, and the media as a child or young adult if I would have questioned my identity as well. After all, I was much more into climbing trees and riding horses than playing with dolls and having tea parties. I was a tom boy for sure, but it never crossed my mind or anyone else’s that I was anything but a girl. God had made that plain with special embellishments that only girl’s receive.

As Christians can we strive to converse with those that identify as transgender or non binary through the lens of confusion rather than rebellion. Who would choose on their own to attempt to change their identity based on rebellion only?

If an open transgender or non binary person visits your church, how will you respond? Maybe Philippians 4:13 has been written for us – And I find that the strength of Christ’s explosive power infuses me to conquer every difficulty. (TPT) I know that through their confusion, these folks (maybe more than some) need to hear the voice of God. Won’t their ears be more likely to hear it if surrounded by God’s love and not fleshy ridicule?

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.